Merry Christmas, Dean Winchester!
by Radishes
Summary: It's December, and Dean is forced to face his greatest fear. Wincest.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Dean Winchester is a brave man. He's fought vampires and werewolves. He drives as fast as he can, can shoot a target hundreds of feet away and drinks milk past the expiration date. In short, Dean is a badass. But there's one thing that terrifies him, makes him tremble in his boots. Usually, it's not a problem. Actually, it's only a problem about one month out of the year. A month filled with snow and lights and presents and—well, you probably get it by now. Dean dreads December more than hangovers and his impending doom combined. Because in that month, and only that month, he simply cannot escape his greatest fear. It's everywhere! On TV, in the paper, in department stores, staring at dean with his beady eyes sunken into his fat face. His long beard and rosy cheeks give Dean terrible nightmares. Yes. Dean Winchester is afraid of Santa Claus.

Poor guy. Santa's pretty unavoidable in this day and age. We shove holiday cheer down your throat by means of cheery cookies and eggnog while crooning another round of "Here Comes Santa Claus". And by we, I mean Sam.

Sam Winchester loves Christmas. Always has, ever since he was a kid. Granted, he was ten before he had his first true Christmas, complete with tree, lights and presents wrapped in something other than newspaper, but even through the worst holidays, Sam loves the Christmas Spirit. Love for mankind, giving, and sharing! Every year, he insisted on singing carols and greeting everyone he met with a hearty "Merry Christmas!" from late October until the holiday.

Dean has always been a good brother. He'll do anything for Sam. And anything included, for a period of ten years, taking Sam to visit Santa annually. NO matter where they were, John would find some mini mall to drop the kids off at. Ant at every single goddamned mall, no matter how run down or out of the way, there was always a jolly fat Santa beckoning kids to sit on his padded lap and whisper their whishes in his ear. Sam would run, full speed, towards this terrifyingly obese man and pour his heart out while Dean sat as far away as possible, breaking out in a cold sweat and hyperventilating.

That was fifteen years ago. Now, Dean's learned to control his fear. Well, mostly. He no longer sweats at the mention of Old Saint Nick, but he still feels that irrational terror. But as a twenty-eight year old man, he knows it's ridiculous. He's never told Sam. As Dean sees it, enduring Sam's Christmas Spirit and the ensuing terror is better than being subjected to teasing for the rest of eternity.

This year, it's no different. They're stuck in some crappy motel in Nowhere, West Virginia. Squeezed between a Laundromat and a suspiciously boarded-up Chinese buffet, it's one of their grimmer holidays. Dean's playing Scrooge and Sam is basically a sugar plum fairy. Some spirit is supposedly haunting the bowling alley a few blocks from here, but it's more likely to be a case of bored small-town inhabitants trying to stir things up.

Dean grumbles as he grabs his and Sam's coffee, a large black and a medium pumpkin latte, no whip, respectively, and makes his way back to the hotel. It's far too cold for early December. He fumbles for the key and opens the door. As he walks in, he's enveloped in a wonderful embrace of an actual working furnace. Sam's not sleeping. He must be in the bathroom. Dean sets the coffee down and lies down on the bed, looking up. Shit. There's some sort of leafy weed growing on the ceiling, near the bathroom door. The whole place is probably infected. Dean walks over to further inspect, but before he can, the bathroom door flings open. Sam flies out, Hobbes style, and attacks Dean.

Dean's speechless. Nothing gets Sam hornier than mistletoe. Pinning Dean to the bed, Sam begins to undress. He removes his shirt and starts on his pants. Dean, slightly terrified from both the unexpected attack and the Christmassy implications of mistletoe, tries to keep his heart from leaping out of his chest. Two buttons and a zipper later, Sam's pants are off. Dean surveys his brother, starting with his gorgeous face. His eyes trail down Sam's collar bone to his abs and down to his… Santa Claus boxers.

Dean Winchester sounds like a girl when he screams.


End file.
